Against a Brightening Sky (14 page)

“Yes, sir.” Marshall patted an inside pocket. “I'll just stop at my desk first to get a pencil and notebook.”

Gabe managed to gather up most of the files and stuffed them into his lower desk drawer. Files that interested him most or needed a second look went into the narrow top drawer.

The effort left him sweating and woke the ache in his side. He shut his eyes and concentrated on forcing the pain into the background again. By the time Marshall ushered Mullaney into his office, he'd recovered.

He was only mildly surprised to discover the union official with Dominic was Aleksei Nureyev.

“Glad to see you took me seriously, Mullaney. Have a seat.” Gabe leaned forward enough to rest his forearms on the desk, and toyed with a pencil. He thought about hiding his injury, but changed his mind. “Forgive me for not standing. I cracked a few ribs yesterday, and the doctor ordered me to take it easy. Officer Henderson has agreed to sit in and take notes for me. Lieutenant Fitzgerald is still in the hospital.”

Dominic leaned forward in his chair, startled and slightly anxious. “Will the lieutenant be all right?”

“He needs some time, but he'll be fine.” Gabe studied the young union leader's face. Mullaney wasn't faking concern; he'd wager his badge on that. “Jack broke his foot and has a slight concussion. Nothing that won't heal.”

“Good to hear.” Dominic's relief appeared genuine too. “The lieutenant's always played straight with me and my men.”

“Is having another person take notes standard practice for American police officers, Captain? Policemen in Russia seldom want witnesses.” Nureyev smiled and unbuttoned his heavy wool overcoat before taking his seat. The overcoat looked expensive, with jet buttons and the type of tailoring Gabe associated with Nob Hill bankers, not labor union officials. His curiosity about Nureyev rose another notch.

“It's standard for me, Mr. Nureyev. I find it helps avoid misunderstandings.” Icy fingers stroked the back of his neck, urging him to pay extra attention. Gabe kept his voice professional and stripped of emotion. “You're free to go if that bothers you, Mr. Nureyev. Dominic has to stay.”

Aleksei laughed and gestured toward Mullaney, totally unshaken and at ease. His confidence grated on Gabe. “That's why I'm here, Captain, to ensure there are no misunderstandings between my friend and the police.”

“Let me handle this, Aleksei.” Mullaney leaned forward in the visitor's chair, hands on his knees. “Ask your questions, Captain Ryan. I've nothing to hide.”

Gabe believed him, but he wasn't going to say so in front of Aleksei Nureyev. The man woke every cop instinct he had, every one of which said not to trust Nureyev or let him get too close.

Instead, he opened his top desk drawer, rooting through the papers until he came up with the list of people killed at Lotta's fountain. He passed the list to Mullaney. “These are the bodies we've identified from yesterday. How many of these names do you recognize?”

Dominic began reading and blanched. “Christ … I know at least thirty of these men. Maybe another twenty or so sound familiar if you're counting wives and children, but I'm not that sure of all the names.”

Mullaney dropped the paper on Gabe's desk abruptly and stood. He paced to the office door and stood there, both hands on top of his head, staring at the frosted glass. Henderson started to say something, but a look from Gabe stopped him.

They'd wait Dominic out. In the meantime, Gabe took the opportunity to watch Nureyev. That Aleksei knew he was being observed and didn't care made the man all the more interesting.

What struck Gabe hardest was how bored and disinterested Aleksei appeared. He claimed to be one of Dominic's friends as well as his union second-in-command, to care about Dominic's welfare. Yet not a trace of emotion showed on Nureyev's face or in his eyes. Dominic's distress didn't touch him at all.

Gabe suddenly remembered a boy he'd met the summer he was ten. His father was granted one of his rare weeklong vacations and his parents had booked a cabin in the Santa Cruz Mountains. Harold was the same age and the only other boy in the campground, but after the first day, Gabe wanted nothing to do with him.

Harold's idea of fun was catching turtles in the pond and flipping them onto their backs in the middle of the hot, dry gravel road. If a turtle did manage to right itself, Harold tipped it over again. Gabe's angry attempts to stop the larger boy's cruelty resulted in Harold giving him a split lip.

As soon as Gabe told his father, Matt Ryan went straight to the campground director. The next morning, Harold's family packed up and left.

Gabe had never forgotten the look in the other boy's eye as he watched the poor turtles struggle. The same cold, blank look sat in Aleksei Nureyev's eyes as he watched Dominic Mullaney.

“Dom, you're wasting the captain's time.” Aleksei's dispassionate stare never wavered. “Pull yourself together.”

Mullaney came back to his chair. His voice sounded rough, choked. “I'm sorry, Captain. My friend Shawn is on that list. I was best man at his wedding not more than a month ago.”

“No need to apologize.” The only Shawn on the list was a Shawn Fitzhugh, a twenty-four-year-old dockworker. Fitzhugh had been shot. Gabe put a mark next to Shawn's name. “Do me a favor if you would. Read aloud all the names of union men you recognize so Officer Henderson can write them out. We'll leave the wives and children for another time.”

Dominic went through the list a second time, reading off names. He found four men he'd missed the first time. Henderson dutifully added their names to all the rest.

A quick comparison of Henderson's list and the coroner's report showed Gabe that only Fitzhugh had been shot. The rest of the union men died as a result of explosions, either caught too close to a blast or as a result of being struck by flying debris. That Mullaney's best friend was the only union member to be shot might be a coincidence, but Gabe didn't believe in coincidence. Not when it came to murder.

“We're almost finished, Mullaney.” Gabe tucked the two lists into the drawer and eased back into his chair. “I don't believe you were responsible for what happened at the parade. You're too much of an idealist. But what I believe doesn't matter. The mayor's office and the press are already looking for someone to blame.”

“And the most convenient person to blame is Dominic Mullaney.” Nureyev stood and took his coat off the back of the chair. “I told you coming here was a mistake, Dom. Let's go.”

Anger glittered in Nureyev's eyes, and Gabe's budding hunch became firm conviction. Aleksei had reasons of his own to keep Dominic from talking. He meant to find out what those reasons were.

“I'll tell Dominic when he can leave, Mr. Nureyev.” Gabe put the steely tone of command into his voice, a tone reserved for only the most reticent rookies. He had no qualms about using it on Nureyev. “But since you appear to be in a hurry, I'm going to help you along. Officer Henderson, please escort Mr. Nureyev to the lobby. Make sure he stays there.”

“Yes, sir.” Marshall moved from his spot next to the file cabinet and opened the office door, eyeing Nureyev. “You heard the captain. We're going to the lobby.”

“So much for your principles and avoiding misunderstandings, Captain Ryan.” Aleksei's lip curled. “I understand all too well. All policemen are alike. You intend to hang Dominic with his own words.”

“I've already said I don't think Dominic was behind what happened. Your low opinion of policemen aside, I meant that.” Gabe leaned forward, his smile cold. He didn't want Nureyev to mistake his intentions. “Perhaps we should talk about why you're so determined to keep him from cooperating. That interests me a great deal.”

Gabe wasn't sure if Nureyev understood or not, but Dominic did. Mullaney glanced at Gabe and frowned. “Wait outside, Alek. Everything will be all right.”

“Since you insist, I'll go.” Aleksei strolled to the door, the picture of wounded dignity. “I'll wait for you at the car, Dom.”

Gabe hadn't realized how stiff and tense he was, or that he'd sat up ramrod straight in the chair, until the door shut behind Henderson. The renewed ache in his side let him know. He sat back gingerly. “Look, Dominic, the truth is your union isn't very popular with the shipping companies or the hotel owners. People will try to blame you and your men for starting the riot. They'll try to say you hired the men on that roof too. Things will go easier for you if you help me figure out who tried to set you up.”

Dominic wiped a hand over his mouth and glanced at the office door. “Alek's been saying since the start that someone set me up to take the fall. Much as the business owners hate me, I can't see them murdering women and children in cold blood. One of my men heard a rumor that anarchists were behind it, like those fellows back in 1916. A few of the hotel waiters were in a bar last night and heard people going on about the Bolsheviks bringing their war here. Could be either of those or something else entirely. I wish I knew who to set you on, but I don't.”

Gabe tapped his pencil on the desk, but stopped abruptly. The sound reminded him that Jack wasn't here. He was on his own. “I agree on one point: The chances of any business owners hatching a plot like this are pretty long odds. And from what I've read, anarchists support the labor unions. My guess is that if they were to toss bombs, they'd target the shipyards or the hotels.”

“You're dead right about that, Captain. I heard Emma Goldman speak a few years back, before she went to prison.” Dominic folded his arms over his chest and shrugged. “I'm not keen on this propaganda of the deed Goldman and some of the other anarchists talk about, but they do back the unions. I'd have a hard time believing anarchists had a hand in this.”

“But they're easy to blame. If you read the papers long enough, anarchists get blamed for just about everything.” Gabe frowned, trying to pin down what bothered him about the other rumor. The back of his neck itched as he chased after the thought, a sure sign to keep pushing. “This is the first I've heard of people worrying about Bolsheviks. Why is that?”

“More White Russian refugees are arriving, and the truth about the Bolsheviks' revolution is starting to spread. People with even a hint of noble blood in the family left because staying meant being rounded up and shot. A lot of the hotel workers are Russian, and the stories they tell are horrible.” Mullaney scowled and hunched his shoulders. “Entire families were killed, from gray-haired grams to wee babes in arms. Rumors have started making the rounds that people who made it out are turning up dead in New York and Seattle. That has the Russian community afraid the Bolsheviks are hunting for people who escaped them. People who came over earlier don't know who to trust.”

“I don't doubt your word, but why keep chasing someone after they've left the country? Once out of Russia, they wouldn't be a threat.” Gabe rubbed the back of his neck, trying to erase the feel of cold fingers, but that didn't help. It never did. “Explain that to me, Dominic, and make me understand why the Bolsheviks would follow anyone to San Francisco. From where I'm sitting, that doesn't make any sense.”

“I'm not surprised. Alek is convinced Lenin is mad as a hatter.” Dominic braced his hands on his knees and stared at his boots, studying the patterns of dust on creased black leather as if they held all the answers. He straightened up and looked back at Gabe. “The tsar and his family haven't been seen since the Bolsheviks took them into custody two years ago. Lenin probably had them killed, but the government still starts rumors about the tsar quietly going into exile or retiring to the mountains. Now Lenin's working to wipe out even the memory of the monarchy. If his followers kill anyone with even a distant blood tie to the throne, the Royalists won't have anyone to rally around.”

Gabe sat quietly, letting what Mullaney had said mix with what he already knew. Thinking. Putting scattered pieces of the puzzle in place.

A part of him wanted to scoff at Mullaney's story. The idea of Lenin or anyone else sending men to San Francisco to hunt escaped nobility was laughable. Still, no matter how he circled around Dominic's story and turned the events surrounding the parade inside out, he always came back to how the gunman had singled out Alina. That was a fact he couldn't disregard or put aside. He'd watched it happen.

In the end, all he could say was that someone wanted her dead. He could guess or invent reasons based on Mullaney's story, but he needed to
know.
Cases were solved with evidence, things he could touch and prove. Right now he couldn't say who was behind the shootings or even what part of Europe Alina came from.

That Alina couldn't remember anything about her life or her family made this case more difficult. Dee was convinced that some arcane, and likely sinister, influence was involved in the young woman's memory loss. With luck, Dora and Delia would find a way to help her.

The new ghost haunting Delia suddenly came to mind. A princess, she'd said, pretty and chestnut haired, one who bore a strong resemblance to Alina. Maybe there was something to this idea of Lenin's men turning Gabe's city into a hunting ground. That was a disturbing thought, one he couldn't dismiss out of hand. The touch of cold fingers on his face grew stronger, joined by indistinct whispers he struggled not to hear.

Gabe cleared his throat. “I'd guess about half or more of the union is made up of hotel workers. How many of those men are Russian?”

“Damn near all of them, Captain. That was the first reason for making Alek a union officer. Most of the waiters speak English, but not the kitchen workers. I probably wouldn't know about any of this if the men didn't trust me.” Mullaney glanced at the door again, his expression troubled. “Alek trusts me too, and he'd be angry if he knew I was talking this much. But I owe it to Shawn to do what's right. If you're going to catch the people responsible for Shawn and all the rest dying, you need to know, Captain.”